


home is how you make it

by Sixthlight



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, cameos from the Usual Suspects, have I drawn up family trees for my five million OCs?, technically this is like an AU of an AU, uh....yes, we've reached arranged marriage AU inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: How to seduce your brother’s fiancé when you’re Nicolò of Genoa (or Malta?) and you’re just too polite to do that (or: the arranged marriage fic where Yusuf is going to marry Nicolò’s brother).
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Original Character(s)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 948





	home is how you make it

Over the last seven years or so, Nicolò had developed a set of rules to determine what he was facing when he returned to Genoa from Malta. If nobody came to greet him, nothing in particular had changed; if his brother Marco came to greet him, Godfrey wanted Nicolò to do something that Nicolò wasn’t going to want to do; if his niece Giulia came to greet him, Godfrey had done something that Nicolò wasn’t going to like.

If Godfrey came to greet him, there had been some great tragedy, but that had only happened once – when their father had died – and short of their mother’s death Nicolò was not expecting it to happen again.

This time, when he rode into the palace courtyard, his nephew Francesco, Godfrey’s oldest son, was standing there. That was new.

“Not that it isn’t good to see you,” he said, greeting the boy, “but where is your sister? She’s usually the first here when I sail home.”

“She has been married,” Francesco told him, with a sigh. “To Foix. They signed the contract three months ago and she left last week.”

“It was going to happen sometime,” Nicolò said, gripping Francesco by the shoulders, “but that is sad news. I will miss seeing her.” Giulia was only three years younger than Nicolò; she and Francesco had always been closer to him than most of his own brothers and sisters.

“Also,” Francesco said, “my father is negotiating his own betrothal, as we speak.”

“His own?” Nicolò took a step back, in surprise. “Your mother hasn’t even been dead half a year.” That news had been conveyed by Giulia, when he had been in Genoa last; Godfrey had not considered it important enough to tell Nicolò personally.

“Some exiled prince,” Francesco said. “He has been here with his party since before Giulia left.”

“I would not have thought your father would agree to that sort of marriage, but I suppose he is not short of heirs.”

“Apparently the Caliph in Egypt is offering quite a dowry,” Francesco added, in the manner of one who was conveying helpful information.

“Egypt?” Nicolò said blankly. He was ruling Malta for his brother; an alliance with the Fatimids was news of the first import, and Godfrey had not even sent a message. More importantly, he had heard no word of this, and he should have. “Is he a _Muslim_?”

“Yes,” said Francesco. “His mother was queen in Tunis but the Caliph is his uncle, or his cousin, or – anyway, apparently she died, this would have been some years ago now, and they sent a regent because her husband was from the Fatimid court, and now they don’t want this prince to try and take the throne again, so they’re marrying him to my father. I know I am supposed to keep all of this straight, but it is very difficult.”

“Forgive me,” Nicolò said, “but is Godfrey _well_?”

“He says it is a very rational decision,” said Francesco. “I don’t even think he likes the prince very much.”

Nicolò sighed; more than a week at sea, and all he wanted to do was bathe and rest before dealing with his brother’s court (and his brother), but this could not wait. “Where is your father?”

“Hearing petitioners,” Francesco said, “so he will not want to be interrupted.”

“I know,” Nicolò said, clapping him on the shoulder, and went inside.

*

Godfrey was hearing petitions with his usual stern expression; there was nothing to indicate that he had lost his mind. Not that, on the face of it, from everything Francesco had said, it was a bad decision. It was just not a decision Nicolò would have expected from _Godfrey_.

The Fatimid party were also in the main hall. Nicolò wondered if the betrothal was being considered as a petition, or if the prince merely wished to see how Godfrey passed judgement. There were two or three men who could be the prince; none was much more finely dressed than the others. There were also two women – no, girls. He wondered what the story was there.

Nicolò had not been planning on presenting himself, but Godfrey’s steward called him forward at the end of the petitions, so he had to anyway.

“I did not expect you for another month,” said Godfrey. “How are our holdings in Malta?”

“Still ours,” said Nicolò, rising from his bent knee. “My steward is holding them.” He didn’t name her; Godfrey and Nile would _not_ get along, and he did not want to bring her to Godfrey’s attention. She was both too competent and too good a friend to condemn to his brother’s disapproval.

“That is good,” Godfrey said. “If all goes well, you will be able to remain here long enough for my wedding. I expect it to have implications for you in Malta. We will need to talk, brother.”

“I am at your command, of course,” Nicolò said politely; there was nothing else to be said, in such a setting.

*

The Fatimid party was of course seated at the high table; Godfrey put Nicolò next to them, or rather Marco told him that Godfrey had decided to put Nicolò next to them.

“I think he’s tired of them talking in their own language,” Marco had said.

“Surely one or two of them have some Latin. Or Greek?”

“Of course, but his prospective fiancé doesn’t. Which is probably good for Godfrey; he seems to talk a lot, and I don’t think our brother would enjoy that.”

Nicolò had contemplated the prospect of Godfrey being married to – this was getting entirely ridiculous – a Muslim man who liked to talk. The Fatimids must be offering a _very_ good bargain, and must want to get rid of this prince _very_ much, which quite frankly raised the question of why the Caliph hadn’t just had him quietly killed; half a dozen Christian rulers Nicolò could think of would have. Godfrey definitely would have, if it was him. But Nicolò tried not to think about that, because it raised uncomfortable questions about whether he was doing right by serving him, and…well, what other choice was there, really.

“Has Godfrey considered learning Arabic?” he had asked Marco.

“No,” Marco had said, blankly. “What for?”

Nicolò’s Maltese Arabic still wasn’t _very_ good, but he’d had a steep and unavoidable learning curve and could understand it a lot better than he spoke it. It worked well enough for Sicilians and progressively less well for anybody else; well, that was what the trading tongue was for. But it was absolutely good enough, when he was seated opposite the two girls from the negotiating party, to understand that they were talking about him, and more or less what they were saying.

“He’s a lot prettier than Yusuf’s count,” said the older one. “And so much younger. Are they really brothers?”

“Enough, Noor,” said the man seated next to Nicolò, who had not spoken a word in Latin all night. “Even if he cannot understand you, it is rude for the two of you to talk about him to his face.” He did not look at Nicolò, or so much as let an eyebrow twitch to indicate his meaning, when he said “But you’re right, he is prettier.” Then he winked at the girls.

Noor and the other girl – her sister? – both laughed.

“Thank you,” said Nicolò, in Arabic. “To answer your question, he is my brother, but we have different mothers; Godfrey is said to look very much like his mother, but I do not know how true that is, because she died long before I was born.”

The younger girl dropped her spoon into her soup. Noor’s eyes went wide as saucers. Several other people in earshot laughed, but not Marco, next to Nicolò, who just said “Do you have to as well?”

“I can talk to you any day, brother, let me speak with our guests,” Nicolò said to him in Latin. Marco sighed, and kept talking to their next-oldest sister Camilla, who was back at court after her husband had died in a boar hunt last year. To the man next to him, he said – back to Arabic – “My brother did not make specific introductions; I do not know your name, although you seem to know mine.”

“Actually I don’t,” said the man. He was Nicolò’s age, with a fine black beard, and kind eyes. He spoke with the same accent as the girls, which was not quite the same as some of the other members of their party. “I saw you at the end of the petitions, but my Latin is not good enough to have caught it.”

“We weren’t speaking Latin, we were speaking Genoese,” Nicolò said.

The man laughed; he was one of those people who did it with his whole face. Nicolò liked it at once. “See – that is how bad it is!”

“Nicolò,” Nicolò said. “I am Nicolò, of Genoa. Though more lately of Malta.”

“That explains why you could surprise us.” The man smiled. “I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib, and we may yet be brothers. My sisters, who think so highly of your face, are Noor and Yasmin.”

“We didn’t say we thought that highly of it,” Noor objected at once. “We only said he was prettier than his brother.”

“This man next to me is my brother too,” Nicolò said, gesturing to Marco; Marco was looking the other way and didn’t notice. “How do you rate him?”

“Well, he looks much more like you,” said the other girl, Yasmin, which was a diplomat’s answer. “Do you have the same mother?”

“We do,” Nicolò said. “You may yet meet her; I imagine she would attend Godfrey’s wedding. She retired to an abbey after our father died, so she is not at court at present.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Yusuf. “It has not been decided where Noor and Yasmin might live. If the negotiations are successful.”

Neither girl looked very happy at this, and Yusuf looked a little strained as well. Nicolò wondered what it might be like, to have your fate in the hands of others to such a degree. Of course his had always been, but he had never been threatened with separation like that. Or at least he had not minded it.

“I’m sure Godfrey wouldn’t mind if they made their home here,” Nicolò said, which was a polite wish more than a certainty.

“He has already asked whether it would truly be necessary,” said Yusuf.

“Ah,” Nicolò said, and swallowed some further uncharitable remarks, such as _I see you know my brother’s temperament already_. “I shouldn’t be asking about such things while they are still being considered.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Yusuf, though clearly it was of every consequence. “Tell me. I have never been to Malta, although we sailed past it on the way here. What is it like? How long has Genoa held it? I should know this, but it is escaping me right now.”

“Well, my father –” Nicolò began, and they managed to fill the rest of the evening with conversation. Yusuf painted a colorful picture of the Fatimid court, with the aid of his sisters, who informed Nicolò (to some discomfort from Yusuf, who was being careful to speak in generalities) that Yusuf was considered something of a poet, as well as an artist.

“What _are_ you talking to them about?” Marco asked him at one point, sounding baffled. “You’ve been yammering on forever.”

“Poetry,” Nicolò informed him, which only baffled Marco more; he wasn’t much for poetry and he probably didn’t think Nicolò was either, although in truth it was more that he didn’t care to declaim it. He didn’t mind hearing it.

“Perhaps you could write one for Godfrey,” Nicolò said to Yusuf at one point, mostly as a joke; somehow, in an hour or two, he felt they’d reached that point.

“I don’t think he’d like that,” said Noor. Yasmin nodded.

“I have no idea whether he would like that,” said Yusuf, but the way he looked at Nicolò said he knew Nicolò had not been serious.

“On second thought, you are right, he is sadly difficult that way,” Nicolò said, which he really shoudn’t have. But it was becoming vexing, somehow, to imagine this charming, kind, slightly wary man – who was of an age with Nicolò, and therefore young enough to be Godfrey’s son – married to his stern oldest brother.

“Oh, what a shame,” Yusuf sighed, inviting Nicolò to see his disappointment as a joke; but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

*

He didn’t see Yusuf or his sisters for the next couple of days. Godfrey was very busy with the betrothal negotiations and didn’t have time to speak with Nicolò, which was the whole point of Nicolò returning to Genoa instead of getting on with the business of ruling Malta for him; if this went on longer than a week he was going to have to find a ship heading south and send Nile a message to say he would be away for more than the month and a bit he had thought. He did warn his ship’s captain, Sébastien, that they might be in Genoa longer than expected.

“Worse places to be,” Sébastien said. “Is it your brother again?”

“He’s trying to get married.”

“I’m surprised he’s not trying to get _you_ married,” said Sébastien, who was closer to Godfrey’s age than Nicolò’s and had the unfortunate habit of sometimes speaking to him like an older brother. Nicolò didn’t really mind, though. He was better at it than every one of Nicolò’s actual older brothers. “You’re more than old enough.”

“Please do not put the suggestion in his mind,” Nicolò said.

Sébastien laughed. “I’m not likely to speak to the Count any time soon. Don’t worry.”

The thought sprang upon Nicolò entirely unbidden that he wouldn’t have minded marrying Yusuf, if that had occurred to Godfrey, but he banished it again just as quickly; he didn’t want Godfrey interfering in his affairs any more than necessary, and in any case that had never been any sort of suggestion. He didn’t even know why he’d thought it. He’d spoken to him once.

He managed to put it aside until one early afternoon, when he was climbing back up the stairs from the armoury and heard women’s voices in a place he was not expecting them; all Godfrey’s soldiers were men. Moreover, they were speaking Arabic. He thought he knew who that was.

“I think we need to go back this way,” Yasmin was saying, as he rounded the corner.

“No, if we go this way we will stay in the western part, and – oh!” Noor said, as Nicolò came into view. “Lord Nicolò!”

“Peace be upon you, Lady Noor,” he said. “Are you lost?”

“Yes,” said Noor, very pragmatically. “We slipped away from your sister’s, ah, solar and went to find – and got lost. If you just tell us how –”

“We’re not lost,” objected Yasmin. “We just don’t know _exactly_ where we are.”

“What were you doing in the solar, that you needed to slip away from?” Nicolò asked them.

“Embroidery,” said Yasmin, sighing.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, she’s very good at it,” said Noor; Yasmin looked startled, like this was unexpected praise. “And I don’t mind, for something to do with my hands. But none of the other ladies here speak Arabic, except Lady – what was her name – Lady Elvira, because she is from Sicily, and she got tired of translating for us after the first day. And sitting doing embroidery while everybody else talks and you can only understand some of what they say, and they can’t understand you at all, is _very_ boring. We were supposed to go hawking, but the weather was too poor.”

“I understand,” said Nicolò; Elvira was his brother Otto’s wife and she would also be old enough to be these girls’ mother, Otto being only seven years younger than Godfrey and Noor and Yasmin being – Nicolò thought he judged it right – young women rather than children, but certainly younger than twenty. “That sounds very tiresome. But…you are probably not supposed to leave unchaperoned, and the other ladies may be worried, or looking for you.”

“ _We_ know that,” Noor said, like Nicolò was being very stupid. “We know we’re not _supposed_ to. Do you only do things you’re supposed to?”

“Mostly,” said Nicolò. He didn’t like it, but there it was.

“Are you saying,” Yasmin said, widening her eyes in a way that was almost natural, “that we wouldn’t be safe in your brother’s own palace, Lord Nicolò?”

“You should be doing the negotiations for your brother’s betrothal, Lady Yasmin; you have a way with words. But of course you are safe with me, or any of my brother’s men.” They had better be, Nicolò thought; he didn’t think Godfrey would tolerate any insult to noble guests. He wished he thought better of him than that.

Noor made a noise he couldn’t interpret.

“You don’t believe that?”

“I believe it,” she said, folding her arms. “I am just very tired of – of being told where to go, and hoping that the right man will be there to defend us.”

Nicolò thought about the conversation last night, and the fact they might lose their brother soon, and that their parents were dead if Francesco had it right, and how much he missed Giulia, and how Nile or Andromache or Quỳnh would laugh at the idea of needing the ‘right man’ to defend them, and how he had nothing at all to do for the rest of the day.

“Would you like to learn how to defend yourselves?” he asked.

“What does that mean?” asked Yasmin, at the same time as Noor’s eyes lit up. “Yes!”

Nicolò took them to one of the small courtyards that nobody really used and spent what he thought was a very useful couple of hours explaining about the best places to stab people, and how you could hurt someone if they were much larger than you were. Most of it he had learned talking to Quỳnh, who was not a short woman but was still lighter than most men and relied on speed. Noor was small even for a woman, and Yasmin might be averagely tall if she had height left to gain. Fortunately, both of them turned out to have an excellent grasp of anatomy, and merely had not been encouraged to apply it to this purpose.

How useful any of it would ever be to them, he did not know, but it was evidently taking their mind off their situation, and it was very entertaining. If a little bruising when Noor managed to put him on his back on the very hard cobblestones.

Yasmin jumped. “Noor!”

“That’s what I was supposed to do!”

“Very good,” Nicolò croaked, making himself wait through being winded before he sat up.

“I can think of any number of explanations for what is going on here,” said a man’s voice in Arabic, “but I’m trying to decide which is the funniest.”

“Did you know, Yusuf,” Noor said, “the best place to stab someone is in the kidneys?”

“Yes?” Yusuf said. He didn’t sound sure whether this was the right answer.

“Well, why do you never tell us anything that interesting?”

“I didn’t realise you wanted to know.” Nicolò sat up to see Yusuf walking towards them. He looked down at Nicolò. “We meet again.”

“Your sisters,” Nicolò said, “were tired of having no conversation, with the ladies. Apparently we need better ladies, in Genoa.”

“That – is not what I thought you were going to say,” said Yusuf, and offered Nicolò a hand up. Nicolò took it. Yusuf’s hand had a swordsman’s calluses, layered on top of a clerk’s, from a pen.

“I don’t live in Genoa, most of the time,” Nicolò said. “Not anymore.”

“You are supposed to be making me want to live here,” Yusuf pointed out.

“Ah, yes,” Nicolò said, recalled to his duty. “I suppose you are here to take your sisters back where they should be?”

“I should be. Come on,” Yusuf said, turning to his sisters. “We do not want to distress anyone, or disrupt the talks.”

*

Nicolò was cooling his heels outside his brother’s office the next day – he had been promised they would talk, but apparently the Fatimids had come back with something else they wanted settled right away – when Yusuf came out. Nicolò, who had been staring at the wall and trying to decide which saint he should pray to for the chance to leave Genoa as swiftly as possible, looked up.

“Are you done?”

“No,” Yusuf said, making Nicolò realise he’d spoken in Latin. Apparently he understood more than he spoke. “But right now they are arguing over something I have no control over, and I – wanted some air.”

“You won’t get it in here,” said Nicolò, and took him out onto the small balcony that came off the antechamber. “You do not have to answer this, and I beg your forgiveness, but it seems to me you are not enthused about this betrothal.”

“Ah, why would you think that? Have I not been joyous on every occasion we have spoken?” Yusuf said, lightly, then sighed. “I can’t stay in Cairo, and we certainly cannot go back to Tunis, and this is – much less unpleasant than some of the other fates which tend to happen to extraneous princes.”

“And your sisters?”

“That’s what they’re arguing about,” Yusuf said, but did not elaborate further. “You do not have to answer this, but – tell me, Nicolò of Malta, why do you think I should marry your brother?”

“Well,” Nicolò said, stalling, because the first thing that sprang to his tongue was _you should not_. “He is a ruler of no small domain, and it is possible to live a happy life in his court. He is not cruel, or capricious. He is not so pious that he finds your faith any bar to the marriage, but he tries to live virtuously.”

“Those are all things he is not.”

“I don’t rule Malta for Godfrey,” Nicolò said, “because it pains me to be so far from Genoa. But I will not speak ill of him to you.”

“Hmmm,” Yusuf said, looking at Nicolò with something on his mind, that was clear, but still not unkindly. They stood there in silence until the door to Godfrey’s office opened again.

*

Nicolò got to deliver his report to Godfrey but no chance to discuss the outcome, and then the next day Godfrey was called to deliver a judgement half a day’s journey from Genoa, which meant he would be gone two days. Nicolò saw Noor and Yasmin walking around the main garden with some of the other ladies of the court, nobody speaking to them, still looking terribly bored.

“Why are we not organising hawking, or some other expedition?” he asked Marco. “It is as if we are all trapped in the palace, or at least the city.”

“We’ve had word there might be raiders nearby,” Marco told him. “Pirates.”

“Attacking the city itself, or the lands nearby? That would be ridiculous. I tell you, we know something of pirates in Malta, and they go after easy prey.” Well, not all of them, but Nicolò had no reason to believe Andromache or Quỳnh would come this far north, and he was _reasonably_ certain they would not attack Genoese ships – let alone the city – while he was visiting there.

Reasonably.

“I don’t know the details.” Marco shrugged. “If you ask me we need to make an example of some of them.”

“Because that works so well,” Nicolò retorted, thinking of – certain events of their youth.

“Are you going to go on about those boys I killed, _again_ –”

“I didn’t say anything about them, so surely they are on your conscience.”

Marco swore. “Sometimes you are a pious prig, Nicolò, and I wish our father had let you go to that monastery.”

“I don’t, anymore,” Nicolò said. “I don’t think I’m made for the monastic life.”

“I suppose there’s hardly a monastic life in Malta – aren’t most of them still Muslims?”

“Not quite all, but yes.”

“I suppose that is why you are getting on so well with our guests.”

“They are easy to get on with, Marco.” Nicolò shrugged. “You need to try harder, that is all.”

He wondered what Yusuf was doing to entertain himself, with the negotiations halted, and found him in the same garden he had seen the ladies in, drawing in a small codex made of scraps of paper bound together. Paper was terribly expensive in Genoa; it was one of the things the Fatimids had to trade that Nicolò thought was most valuable, though he did not know if Godfrey felt the same.

“Can I ask what you are drawing?”

“The garden,” Yusuf said. “It keeps my mind quiet, when I have nothing else to do but wait, and I am out of prayers.”

“A useful habit,” Nicolò said, sitting beside him. “How does Godfrey feel about it? I realise I do not know. He is so much older than me that I have never had much cause to ask him such things.”

“Neither have I,” Yusuf said, “or rather, he has not offered.” His lips quirked. “Remember, we cannot speak without a translator, or without a great deal of patience on his part.”

“He can be patient when he chooses.”

“Can he,” Yusuf said, and Nicolò realised that had perhaps not been politic.

“Tell me,” he said, to cover it, “what would you do, if you had any choice in the world right now? Would you be an artist? Would you go…where would you go?”

“Tell me first,” Yusuf returned, “what _you_ would do, under that condition, Nicolò of Genoa but also of Malta.”

“I’d go,” Nicolò said, at once. “Back to Malta, and stay there, and never come to Genoa again.” He shrugged. “I like it there. I have – companions.”

“Beloved ones, perhaps?” Yusuf was smiling, but it was not a smirk; it was a genuine inquiry.

“Yes, but not as perhaps you mean that.” Nicolò thought about how one could say _I have not yet been required to marry for my family and I have not met anyone I would wed for myself_ , but it felt…not quite like the right thing to say, to a man who was almost certainly going to marry his brother.

“Well, that was an easy answer,” said Yusuf. “I would take my sisters somewhere – somewhere we could all choose our fates. I would not mind so much if I had, if we all had, duties to undertake. People we were responsible to, or for. Instead we have…obligations. Which are not the same thing.”

“Oh, that I understand,” Nicolò told him. “I think I felt the same. Before Malta.”

He met Yusuf’s eyes for a second, in a moment of perfect understanding, and also of noticing how fine and deep Yusuf’s eyes were, how easy to look into.

Yusuf looked away first, and Nicolò found himself flushing, and not sure – no; it was not helpful to lie to himself; he knew why.

“I am interrupting you,” he said, standing. “I should go. I…have to confer with the captain of my ship; this visit is dragging out far longer than I had thought it would. I must make sure he and the crew have all they need.”

“No,” Yusuf said, at once, and then coughed. “That is, of course, I would not keep you from your duties.”

“Come with me,” Nicolò said, before he could think better of it. “Genoa is a great port; if you are going to marry here, you should know what matters most to us. Which is our trade, and the sea.”

Yusuf looked like he changed his mind about what to say before he spoke; Nicolò wondered what he might have said. “Is that…allowed?”

Nicolò raised his eyebrows. “You are a guest here, are you not?”

“Just so,” Yusuf agreed, standing as well. “Then…I will.”

Nicolò was half-expecting someone to stop them as they left, but nobody did. Yusuf asked him very sensible questions about the city, some of which he could answer and some of which he could not. He had spent most of his life, he said when Nicolò asked, in al-Fustat, which was inland. His first sea voyage had been the trip to Genoa.

Nicolò was proud of his ship, insomuch as it was his, but it was not sizeable compared to the ships that had brought Yusuf’s party here; still, that was not what it was built for.

“We are very fast, at sea,” he told Yusuf, as they approached.

“Your rigging is different,’ Yusuf said; he had an observant eye, Nicolò had already seen. “More like that on our ships. The ones that brought us here, I mean.”

“Well, we sail out of Malta,” said Nicolò. “It is simple; sails are expensive and require skill to make, so it is easier to use what is made locally.”

He introduced Yusuf to Sébastien, and they liked each other at once, which pleased Nicolò for some reason he could not name. Sébastien insisted on explaining the ship to Yusuf and telling him all sorts of things about how she sailed. It was not really what Nicolò had come here for, but Yusuf looked so much more at ease than he had been at any moment in the palace, that Nicolò could not bring himself to interrupt it.

Sébastien did pull him aside for a moment, when Yusuf was squinting up at the rigging. He spoke rapidly and in his own Provençal, which Nicolò did not speak but understood more or less. “Andromache is here; she will be at the tavern by the east dock, this evening. She wishes to speak with you, if it is possible.”

“Andromache is – _why_?”

Sébastien shrugged. “Has anybody ever dictated her business but her? Or Quỳnh, of course.”

“I will try and be there,” Nicolò said, and then Yusuf re-joined them.

“Seven days to Sicily – truly?” he asked of Sébastien.

“With good weather,” Sébastien admitted, “but truly.”

“We could be in Malta in almost the same length of time,” Nicolò added, “if we left now.”

“Not quite now, the tide is wrong,” Sébastien reminded him. “In another hour.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Yusuf joked, leaning on the railing and looking out to sea. He was smiling, but his eyes weren’t.

“What do you say? We could ransom him,” Sébastien said, getting in on it.

“His sisters are still here,” Nicolò said. He hated to break the mood, but it was, if anything, too tempting a suggestion.

“You wouldn’t get a ransom for me anyway,” Yusuf said, straightening. “So we might as well stay.” He turned to Nicolò. “Does your brother ever sail anywhere?”

“No,” Nicolò said. “He hasn’t left Genoa in the last ten years, not to speak of.”

“Ah, I see,” Yusuf said. Nicolò cursed himself, for telling the truth.

*

It was not difficult, when Nicolò entered the tavern that evening, to spot Andromache. He thought, when he did, that if Godfrey or perhaps Marco were here, they would say she was a woman dressed as a man. Which was the strangest of thoughts, because to Nicolò’s eyes, she was Andromache, dressed as herself. There was at least one man on her crew who had a voice as high as hers and a similar lack of a beard, but was a man nonetheless; she didn’t dress any differently from him, she just…wasn’t a man. Nicolò could not say why exactly. It had never occurred to him to think about it in Malta, but in Genoa, it did.

“I had not thought to see you here,” he greeted her, sitting down across from her. “But Sébastien tells me you wished to speak.”

“I’ve been here before, you know,” she said. “There’s just better ports on this sea. Almost any of them.”

“Say that a little louder, if you want to spend the evening brawling.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“In all seriousness, Andromache. Why are you here?”

“We had business in the area,” she said, leaning one elbow on the table. “Your brother doesn’t have your morals, Nicolò.”

“Which brother? I have six.” Andromache only cocked an eyebrow at this. “No, he does not.”

Not an admission he wanted to make in public, or at all, but everybody around them was speaking Ligurian, or Latin; it was safe enough. He did not know exactly what Andromache referred to, but he knew she and Quỳnh had a particular distaste for any ships that carried human cargo, as a matter of principle. And it was one of the trades that particularly took Genoese merchants to Egyptian and Levantine ports. This alliance, in fact, would likely continue that, or strengthen it.

They didn’t sail through Malta, these days. The waters around it had become too perilous. Every time Nicolò came back he expected Godfrey to raise that; every time he had not. It was a waiting game.

“I have heard from Marco,” Nicolò went on, “that there is word of raiders in the vicinity. Bold ones, to come so close to Genoa itself. You should be cautious.”

“I’m always cautious, Nicolò,” Andromache said. “But thank you for the warning.” She gave him a serious look. “Will you be coming home soon?”

“As soon as I can, believe me,” Nicolò said. They exchanged an embrace and kisses on the cheek before he left.

He needed to go back, he thought, as he made his way back to the palace. He had managed to deceive himself about what a bitter taste Genoa left on his tongue these days until he had seen Andromache, but seeing her reminded him of what he had in Malta. This wasn’t his home anymore.

*

Godfrey had Yusuf seated next to him at the evening meal that night, which was what he should be doing but made Nicolò inexplicably ill-tempered. He was closest to Noor and Yasmin and also his sister Camilla; he tried to get her to talk to the girls, with his translation, but Camilla wanted to know if they were expecting to be married themselves and to whom, and Noor and Yasmin were clearly reluctant to think on that. Camilla equally clearly wanted to be married again and gone from Godfrey’s court, Nicolò reflected. She would not understand Noor and Yasmin’s wish to stay with their brother at all.

The next day Godfrey finally made proper time to talk to Nicolò; he spoke of sending him more men, and ships, since the problem with pirates was growing.

“It seems they are passing Malta by, from your report,” he said, frowning. “But we cannot expect that will last. And these stories of women leading them – there is something else at work here, that I cannot yet see.”

“I think they know attacking Malta would be a fool’s errand,” Nicolò said, trying not to think about who _they_ were, exactly. “I take it I may depart soon, then?”

“Once the marriage is concluded, certainly,” said Godfrey. “

“Which will be…”

“I expect we will come to an agreement shortly,” he said, sounding not at all like a man who looked forward to a wedding, though not one who was unsatisfied.

“Will the princesses be staying in Genoa?” Nicolò asked, trying to make it sound casual; of course it was of no concern to him.

“No,” said Godfrey, and Nicolò thought of their faces in the garden, and – well, perhaps that was best. “But I am very hopeful that we will be able to secure the older one for you.”

“Wait, what?” Nicolò blinked, startled. Godfrey could not be saying –

“Perhaps that was not the best way to tell you,” Godfrey said, sounding almost apologetic. “But it has come to my attention that you have spent some time with them, and you are more than old enough to need a wife. And as you are in Malta, it only makes sense. She will have to convert, of course, but I do not think there will be any objection.”

“I had thought,” Nicolò said, carefully, “that you would want Malta for one of your younger sons, and therefore have no interest in me wedding a woman.”

“I did consider that, of course, but you are doing well, Nicolò,” Godfrey said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You deserve this reward.”

“Thank you, brother,” Nicolò said, and made his excuses so he could go to his chamber and kick the wall, which was the only outlet for the emotion he was feeling that he could reasonably allow himself.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Noor; she was a very nice girl. But even though she was a similar age to Giulia and therefore more than old enough to marry, for whatever reason, when he thought of her he thought of her like Giulia. He simply could not imagine her as a wife.

Leaving aside entirely, because it _had_ to be left aside, the fact that he could imagine her brother – well. He imagined her brother, in idle moments, even though he should not. But he could hardly be blamed, Nicolò felt, when Yusuf was so – handsome, of course, that went without saying, but such good company too. He had had with Yusuf, instantly, the same sort of feeling he had had when he had met Sébastien or Nile or Andromache or Quỳnh, that there was something uniting them, some commonality that he could not name.

It would not be fair to Noor, to marry her under those circumstances. But when were marriages ever fair, in matters of the heart, when they were made for reasons such as these?

*

The next day there was hawking, outside the city in some carefully set-aside lands that belonged to Godfrey directly. Godfrey insisted that Nicolò come along, and then asked him to act as a translator.

“You have a translator,” said Nicolò.

“I wish to speak to the prince personally,” Godfrey said. “You are my brother; you are the best person for this.”

Nicolò was entirely certain that, in fact, he was not. But he could hardly tell Godfrey _why_. It also meant that he didn’t get to participate in the sport, which was the sort of small insult Godfrey never thought of as an insult.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, when he joined them. “You have no bird.”

“My brother has asked me to translate, so he may have a personal conversation with you,” Nicolò told him, in Arabic. “So I will not have time.”

“That is very kind of you,” Yusuf said, with only a slight twitch around his left eye. Godfrey was looking at his bird and did not notice it. This was going to be, Nicolò thought desperately, right up there with the day his father had refused to let him go to the monastery, or his first storm at sea; torment without apparent end.

“I didn’t know you knew him so well,” Godfrey said to Nicolò, in Ligurian.

“We’ve spoken once or twice,” Nicolò said, and made note that he should not make stray comments to Yusuf. “What would you like me to say to him?”

“Tell him I am pleased our betrothal will soon be agreed.”

Nicolò translated this, without commentary. He was not there to provide commentary. Yusuf smiled politely; it was a shame that even his polite smiles were beautiful. “Tell your brother I am pleased as well.” Nicolò did.

“However,” Godfrey said, “I hope he understands that I am entering this marriage for Genoa; I do not care for men. I would not wish him to be deceived in that regard.”

“You _haven’t told him that_?” Nicolò said, forgetting himself. A shadow crossed Yusuf’s face, at this outburst. Nicolò remembered abruptly that he understood much more Latin and perhaps Ligurian than he spoke; Godfrey’s request had tricked him into forgetting it.

“I didn’t ask you for your opinion,” his brother reminded him, sounding annoyed.

“My brother wishes you to know,” Nicolò said to Yusuf, in Arabic, “that he is making this marriage for Genoa, and does not care for men, which I cannot fault but is entirely inexplicable.” He could not help the last, knowing only Yusuf would hear it.

“I am not surprised by this,” Yusuf returned, his face carefully neutral, “but please say something pleasant to him, because I cannot think of anything.”

“He is not surprised, and understands this entirely,” Nicolò said to Godfrey. “He is marrying for his family also.”

“However, I will expect him to be faithful, and offer the same in return,” Godfrey said. “I take my vows seriously.”

“He expects you not to bed anybody else,” Nicolò said to Yusuf, “but can promise that he won’t either, which I am sure is an immense comfort.”

“My _deepest_ apologies for this entire conversation,” said Yusuf. “I…understand? Actually I do not. But tell him I do, please.”

“He understands,” Nicolò relayed, rapidly improvising to explain the length of Yusuf’s speech, “and has never had any great interest in such matters, so is relieved to hear you say so.”

“Well, that is good,” Godfrey said, sounding surprised. “We will get on, then. How does he feel about the proposal of you marrying his oldest sister?”

“I told him you don’t care for bedding people,” Nicolò said to Yusuf. “Sorry. He wants to know if you’re happy with me marrying Noor. _I_ am not.”

“Did you? Because that is very much not the case,” Yusuf said, looking directly at Nicolò for a heartbeat before returning his eyes to Godfrey. “I think you would be a kind husband, even if it is not your wish. Or hers.”

“I hope I would be,” Nicolò said, before turning to Godfrey. “He says he thinks I will be a kind husband, though Noor is still hesitant about making a match.”

“She’ll get over it,” Godfrey said, waving a hand. “Cheer up, Nicolò; it will be good for you. No, don’t translate any of that.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “Ask him, what does he think of Genoa?”

The rest of the conversation was marginally less awkward, or would have been, except that Yusuf decided to entertain himself by adding in comments to Nicolò that he could not translate or respond to. Godfrey would ask a question like what the prettiest part of the city was, in Yusuf’s opinion.

“You and your sea-green eyes,” Yusuf responded promptly. “But tell him the palace, or something like that.”

Nicolò said it was the palace, and then translated Godfrey’s answer. “He is very pleased to hear that, and wishes to know whether you have travelled much in your life, and I wish to know what you are thinking.”

“I have not but I would like to, and I think if complimenting you is the only joy I can get out of today, I will take it.”

Godfrey said it was brave of Yusuf to marry so far away from the only home he had known, and Yusuf said if he were truly brave he would ask for a different brother, and the _only_ reason Nicolò did not lose his seat before they stopped for lunch was that he had sat through much worse commentary from Andromache without blushing. When they dismounted, Yusuf went to speak with his sisters, and Nicolò did not know whether to be sorry or sag with relief.

“His mood seemed to improve the longer we talked,” said Godfrey. “Thank you, Nicolò; I am feeling much better about this. I knew I could trust you to handle this.”

“Of course,” Nicolò said. “Of course.”

The first sign of trouble was when they were preparing to continue and Yusuf was nowhere to be found.

“The call of nature, most likely,” Godfrey said, unconcerned.

“His sisters.” Nicolò had been all around their party, examining every face; he could not see them. “I cannot find his sisters anywhere, or their mounts.”

“He might be escorting them.”

“It may be,” Nicolò said, but time passed, and they did not appear. Godfrey sent everybody out to search the small wood they rode near; there was nothing. It had been hours now. They were preparing to return to Genoa, for more help in the search, when one of Godfrey’s men arrived on a lathered mount.

“There was word from the port,” he said, gasping himself, “someone saw the prince and his sisters being taken onto a ship – not at the port itself, further down the coast, near here –”

“Kidnapped?” Godfrey said, for the first time in Nicolò’s life – no, the second – his face going blank with shock. The first time had been their father’s death.

“It seemed so, my lord.”

Godfrey swore quite blasphemously, also a first in Nicolò’s hearing. They returned to the city with all speed.

*

There still wasn’t much evidence that Yusuf and his sisters actually _had_ been kidnapped, let alone onto a ship, but Godfrey sent Nicolò and his vessel out all the same, to search down the coast toward Pisa. Nicolò did not protest.

They had a following wind but the tide was turning, which slowed them.

“This is very nearly a fool’s errand,” said Sébastien. “A ship could sail anywhere –”

“South,” Nicolò said. “And we should stay out from the coast; anyone trying to avoid pursuit will go as far out to sea as safely possible.”

They saw nothing on the first day except fishing vessels and slow vessels laden with cargo. They had to anchor overnight. The second day, fishing vessels again, as they sailed south and east with the coast just visible, the wind brisk and the swell choppy. In the mid-afternoon they finally sighted something else. But it wasn’t Andromache’s ship, as Nicolò had expected; it was Quỳnh’s.

“Well _that’s_ a surprise,” said Sébastien. “Are we signalling them, or attacking?”

“Signalling, of course,” Nicolò told him. “That I want to go aboard and speak with her.”

Sébastien scratched his beard. “That will give her time to hide anything that shouldn’t be there.”

“I can hardly sneak up on her,” Nicolò said, dryly. “Do it. And be ready to make speed, afterwards.”

“Not to fight?”

“If that happens we’re in more trouble than I want to think about.”

It was no easy thing to get from one ship to another in these conditions, but they threw him a rope hooked over a spar and Nicolò half-jumped, half-swung aboard. He’d done it before, and knew the best you could hope for was to land on the other ship in one piece, and not look too silly doing it. He hoped he managed that.

“Oh, saints preserve me,” was what he said, when one of the very first things he saw on Quỳnh’s ship – not hidden, not even trying to hide - was Yusuf. “Quỳnh, did you _really_ kidnap my brother’s fiancé?”

“The talks were going too well,” said Quỳnh, examining her fingernails. “You know how much harder it will make it for us if there is a direct agreement between Genoa and Egypt. A little disruption was in order.” She sniffed. “Besides, _kidnap_ is a very strong word for what happened.”

“You certainly kidnapped my sisters,” said Yusuf. He was, Nicolò could not help noticing, not bound or restrained in any obvious way. And neither were Noor or Yasmin.

“You practically demanded to come along,” said Quỳnh.

“They’re my sisters!”

“I’d rather be kidnapped for ransom by pirates than stay in Genoa and get married to one of Nicolò’s awful brothers,” Noor said, folding her arms.

“You weren’t going to be married to one of my brothers,” Nicolò said. “You were going to be married to me.”

“Oh,” said Noor, and hesitated. “I still don’t want to be married to you, though. Even in Malta, and not Genoa.”

“Understandable,” said Nicolò. “But, regardless of how we all feel about this, I am here to take you back.” He thought about it. “Or, your brother at least. I think we could negotiate about the two of you.”

“You’re just going to let us get taken off who knows where by _pirates_?” said Yasmin.

“While I have not known the two of you that long,” Nicolò told her, “my guess is that you would very much enjoy it, as long as it was _these_ pirates, and anyway it wouldn’t be who knows where, it would be Malta. But you wouldn’t have to get married to anybody.”

“It would be Malta?” Yasmin squinted at him suspiciously, which was only fair.

“Regardless,” said Yusuf, “I’m not going back, and I cannot see how you can make me.”

“They may ransom you eventually,” Nicolò pointed out.

“Yes, but that could take _years_ , and who knows what would happen in the meantime.”

“Can you at least pretend to be negotiating with _me_ about this,” said Quỳnh.

“We have an agreement, you’re not going to kill me.”

“I can and will send you back without any of them, however. There’s no agreement about not embarrassing you.”

Nicolò was so busy talking to Quỳnh that he didn’t even notice what Yusuf was doing until there was a sword at his throat. It was not his finest moment.

“Yusuf,” he said, warily, turning to face him, guided by the blade. “What are you doing?”

“How about,” Yusuf said, his charming gaze now very direct, “we leave all the rest aside; if you can defeat _me_ , you can take me back to your brother.”

“Can you at least _pretend_ to be properly kidnapped,” said Nicolò. “It would make this much easier.”

“I’m not interested in making it easy for you.” Yusuf grinned; it was the sharpest expression Nicolò had ever seen on his face.

“Nicolò _is_ very good with a blade,” Quỳnh said; she hadn’t said anything else that Nicolò had noticed, but some of her crew were ranged loosely around him and Yusuf now, Yusuf’s sisters on the outside with her. “You should know that.” She raised her eyebrows. “And it would still not be in my interest to let you go.”

“I’m sure he is,” Yusuf agreed. "And this is for...other reasons."

“I don’t need an excuse to leave you here,” said Nicolò.

“I think you do,” said Yusuf. He was, horrifyingly, not wrong. Nicolò wished he was. He wanted to be someone who, in these circumstances, could just walk away and tell Godfrey there had been nothing to be done, lied point-blank and got on with his life.

But he wasn’t, or he would have run away, years ago.

“Fine,” he said. Yusuf took his blade away from Nicolò’s throat, but kept it raised. Nicolò drew his own.

He had one immediately obvious advantage over Yusuf, in a fight where they were relatively matched in size and weapons; he had spent years fighting on ships, and Yusuf had not. On the other hand, Yusuf was quick and skilled and, Nicolò realised with a grim sort of horror, not fighting like this was a game. Because it wasn’t for him.

He wondered how Yusuf thought this could possibly end – did he think he could wound Nicolò enough to send him back to Genoa? What was _Nicolò_ supposed to do? He could hardly harm him. But he could not – he could not –

He could. He only had to choose to.

They were both starting to breathe heavily; prolonged fights, one on one, usually ended when someone got unlucky, or became exhausted. The trick was not to get into them. Nicolò gathered himself, and pushed Yusuf back with a fierce attack that would make him clumsy for a moment after, if it did not succeed. He didn’t intend it to succeed.

Yusuf’s next pass sliced up the outside of Nicolò’s swordarm, not deeply but scoring a bright line of pain that was going to hurt worse later, not to mention bleed a lot. What Nicolò needed to do, what all his years of training had taught him to do, was breathe through it and not lose hold of his weapon.

The _clang_ when his sword hit the deck was the loudest noise in the world. Nicolò didn’t have a chance to dwell on it, because Yusuf didn’t hesitate; he bounded over the fallen blade and had Nicolò up against the central mast, held there by his fist in Nicolò’s tunic, his sword to his throat. Nicolò had a very bad moment where he wondered if this had been the wrong choice.

“I’m not going back to Genoa,” Yusuf said, very quietly. “I have had a great deal of time to think about it.”

“You win,” Nicolò said. He leaned in, the apple of his throat so close to the blade’s edge he dared not swallow, and kissed Yusuf, a faint dry brush of their lips. It tasted like salt and uncertainty.

He only had to choose.

“Stop it!” cried someone, and Nicolò jerked back, opening his eyes, to see Noor grabbing at Yusuf’s sword-arm, her jaw set. “Stop it, he’s _bleeding,_ what is _wrong_ with you, you don’t want to kill him –”

“I’m not going to kill him!” Yusuf protested, as both his sisters pulled him a step back; he let go of Nicolò’s tunic at the last moment possible.

“Then what are you _doing_?”

“Nicolò has a responsibility to his brother and his city to take you back,” said Quỳnh, coming forward. “And now he has certainly _tried_.”

“I don’t see why that has to involve people bleeding,” Yasmin said, a little indignant.

“It is amazing how many things in life do not need to involve anybody bleeding, and yet it somehow happens anyway,” Quỳnh told her. “If it bothers you so much, we keep the clean rags for bandages in the small chest by the forward mast.”

Nicolò winced, flexing his hand; it really was starting to hurt now, and he wasn’t going to have full use of that arm for a day or two, unless he didn’t mind the wound repeatedly breaking open. “Where are you going now, Quỳnh?”

She smiled. “I don’t think I should tell you that.”

“But –” Yusuf began.

“No, you shouldn’t tell me that,” Nicolò agreed.

“You’re just going to – go away?” Noor asked.

“I’m going to go home,” Nicolò said. He caught Yusuf’s eyes when he did. Yusuf, finally, smiled.

*

He saw Andromache’s ship in the distance a day out from Malta; she had gone north, he knew, because one of Godfrey’s other captains had reported a failed chase. Nicolò had reported a failed attempt to take a pirate ship, with men lost. It was true so far as it went; two of his crew had joined Quỳnh’s ship before they had left each other. Godfrey had been displeased. So had the rest of Yusuf’s party. That was only to be expected. Nicolò had taken the browbeating and said that under the circumstances, he felt the best thing was that he returned to Malta with speed; who knew what he might find along the way.

He surprised himself by feeling a pang when Genoa faded into the coast and out of sight. He hadn’t been able to farewell any of his other siblings like he might wish, though he had snatched a few hours to see his mother. He knew he was unlikely to return.

They made good time. Something loosened in his chest when the main island came into view. He wondered when Godfrey would start to understand what was going to happen. A year or two, he suspected. Godfrey never expected disobedience because it never happened to him.

Nile was waiting for him on the docks. If asked directly Nicolò would have admitted she wasn’t the first person he’d hoped to see, but he was glad for the sight of her regardless. She hugged him and Sébastien.

“Is there anything pressing?” he asked her.

“It has been less than a month, Nicolò, we have scarcely missed you,” Nile said.

“It feels…longer.”

“I understand from Andromache that this is because there is word from Genoa,” Nile said, as they left the dock; Sébastien was supervising the last necessities of making the ship secure, but would want to go to his family after that. “Politics, she said.”

“Not exactly.” Nicolò took a deep breath. “Politics, yes, but we won’t be waiting on any more words from Genoa.”

“That’s been a while coming,” said Nile, instead of all the things she could have said. It would have been a surprise, except that Nile was the first one, last year, who when Nicolò had once said _remember, I hold this island for Genoa_ , had said, _do you? Because that’s not why_ we’re _here._

“Yes,” Nicolò acknowledged. “I just remembered…how thoroughly Godfrey and I disagree on some points.”

“Did you tell him so?”

“No. I just left.”

Nile quirked an eyebrow. “Well, that’s going to be entertaining.”

“I hope he will be distracted by some other matters. Such as the loss of his fiancé. But that is a longer story.”

“Actually it’s a very short one, because I think I already know most of it,” Nile said, which _did_ surprise him. “You have guests. Courtesy of Quỳnh – she was here, and then left again, did I not mention –”

Nicolò did not break into a run, but he did start to walk at his full speed; Nile, whose legs were simply not as long, was left behind within a few paces. He forced himself to slow.

“Don’t wait for me!” she said, laughing, and he picked up speed again, only waving at people he should have stopped to speak with; he would return. As Nile said, it had been less than a month.

He saw Noor first in the main courtyard, sparring with Andromache. Yasmin was somewhere else, it seemed. She jumped when she saw him and was disarmed a second later, which was entirely deserved.

“Pay more attention,” Andromache chided her. “Nicolò! I wondered if your brother was going to let you leave.”

“Why, Andromache, do you know some reason he shouldn’t have?” Nicolò said, and grinned as he embraced her, careful of his injured arm. Noor insisted on looking at it.

“Have you decided to learn medicine as well, since I saw you last?” Nicolò asked her.

“Not yet,” she said. “But this is…a little my fault, I think.”

“Not at all,” Nicolò assured her. “By any chance, is your brother around?”

“He seems to like drawing things, so Nile sent him to make a map of the fortifications,” Andromache said. “Just in case. But I’m sure you’ll see him later.”

“I really feel,” Nicolò said, “I should make sure he is well,” and left to the sound of Andromache and Noor’s laughter.

He found Yusuf on the seaward side of the castle. He wasn’t obviously a prince, not today; he could have been any man of Malta. He was squinting against the sun on the pale stone walls, had a smudge of charcoal on his nose, and he was the best thing Nicolò had seen since he’d left Genoa.

“Hello,” he said. “I hear my steward has put you to work.”

Yusuf looked up from his notes and smiled at him in a way that Nicolò felt he could not deserve but would do almost anything to earn. “Nicolò! Andromache said they sighted you yesterday, and you could not be more than a day away.”

“Well, here I am,” said Nicolò, suddenly awkwardly aware of his bandaged arm, and the circumstances in which they had last seen each other, and indeed all the other circumstances under which they had ever spoken. Being in Malta wasn’t helpfully erasing his memory of them.

“Come here,” Yusuf said. “I hope you got someone more competent than Noor to look at your arm, once you left the ship. You would not believe how she and Yasmin scolded me.”

“It’s nothing,” Nicolò said, but Yusuf tucked his sketchbook under his arm and took Nicolò’s hand, gently checking under the edge of the wrapping. “Really, I have had worse falling over myself at sea –”

“It looks like it will scar.” Yusuf sounded regretful.

“Not the first one, and unlikely to be my last, unless the Mediterranean suddenly becomes peaceful from Jabal Tariq to Byzantium.”

“Still,” Yusuf said. “Better if it had not been necessary.” He lifted Nicolò’s hand, very carefully, supporting the arm at the elbow as well. He kissed it just as carefully; first on the palm, then at the wrist, over Nicolò’s pulse, which was hammering as fast as it had when he’d dropped his sword.

“Nicolò,” he said. “I have some grave news; I fear, despite everything, we will never be brothers. I have run away from Godfrey’s suit, and I do not think it will inconvenience my relatives so much that they will hunt me out, if they do not receive a request for ransom. They were not selling me to Genoa, of all places, and a marriage which would not produce heirs, because they wanted me easily found.”

“Grave news indeed,” Nicolò said, biting his lip. “But, I must confess now, I did not think you and he were suited.”

“I have a proposal, however.” Yusuf’s eyes were sparkling. Nicolò could not have looked away if an entire fleet had appeared on the horizon. “But first I must tell you some things.”

“Such as that you are no longer a prince in any meaningful sense? Or that Quỳnh has offered you sanctuary here? Which she does not exactly have the right to do, but then again, I would not gainsay it; I value her good opinion too much.”

“True things both, and important,” Yusuf agreed. He had not let go of Nicolò’s hand. “But I was thinking more of the fact that as it happens, I care very much for the company of men, and if I married one, I would expect him to be faithful. And kind.”

“I have been told,” Nicolò said, “at least once, that I would be a kind husband. And Malta does not need a prince.” He kissed Yusuf, the way he had on Quỳnh’s ship, but this time there were no blades in the way, and it was not brief. He tasted olives, and Yusuf, and a million possibilities he had not let himself consider before. “Marry me, Yusuf.”

“My heart,” said Yusuf, and Nicolò thrilled to hear it, “you already know I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5880.html?thread=2115064&posted=1#cmt2182904):
> 
> _I am huge sucker for the arranged marriage trope and there have been great prompts and high quality fics! I love the shared headcanon that Nicky's family are a bag of dicks. To add to that, Yusuf is initially betrothed to one of Nicolò's (maybe kinda shitty/possessive/ambivalent?? ) brothers. Pining? Angst? Sneaking around? They are both honorable people but also...?_


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